The Clown was at Fault
by Hannatude
Summary: Thanks to Sherlock's moping about, he and John are going to be late to a special event at the hospital. But is there a legitimate reason for the consulting detective's reticence? - POST SERIES 2 & 3 -


I suppose I should mention this contains spoilers for the end of BBC's "Sherlock" episode 6, but you should already know about the event in question if you're reading this, so... It also sorta contains spoilers for the upcoming Series 3, but they aren't really spoilers if you've read the original stories by Doyle.

Anyway - I'd call this a little glimpse at life in the (supposed) post-Series 3 Baker Street. I say post-S3 because of, well... Mary.

And no, I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or John and Mary Watson. (Although I FERVENTLY wish I did...) They belong to the genius that was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and have recently been (fabulously) re-imagined by the brilliant Misters Moffat and Gatiss of the BBC.

By the way- if you're on Facebook, you should totally check out the Sherlock/Doctor Who fanpage entitled "Them Gallifreyan Sherlycurls".

* * *

"Sherlock." John Watson huffed, dropping a bag of candy on the lounging man's chest. "Come on - We have to go. We're supposed to be in the paediatric ward in less than ten minutes - Mary's already there, waiting!" Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in his friend's garishly painted face.

"Not going." The taller man snapped, swatting the package to the floor as he turned to lay on his side, nose to the wall, his gangly body curling up on itself.

"Don't give me that, Sherlock - You ARE going. It'll only take a few hours." John knelt to pick up the bag and began refilling it with the sweets that had fallen out.  
"We're just passing out Halloween candy to the children in the hospital - You don't even have to wear a costume if you don't wa-." When he rose, he saw that Sherlock had grabbed the blanket hanging on the back of the couch and pulled it down over himself, covering his entire body.  
"What are you doing now?"

"I'm a ghost. OBVIOUSLY." Sherlock muttered from his woollen cocoon.  
"And everyone knows that ghosts can't leave the building they're haunting, so I'll be staying here."

"Sherlock, you're being childish!" John reached for the blanket and yanked it from his old flatmate's frame. He blinked in surprise at the sight of Sherlock, his arms wrapped around his head in a vaguely protective manner.  
"Sherlock..?" His paint-caked brows wrinkled at his friend's behaviour.

"*mutter mumble mutter*"

"What was that?" John strained to hear what his friend was whispering. Sherlock sighed, his body shrinking in on itself.

"I'm... Not exactly a... fan... of..." His statement ended in silence.

"Of what- Oh..." John felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. It had been over a year since Sherlock reappeared in his life - suddenly and unpredictably, just like he had the first time around. But that didn't excuse his slip up. Sherlock had "died" at that hospital. He had avoided it like the plague -unless he needed something there for a case. And even then, he would try to get what he needed by other means. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"So... You'll wash it off, then?" The dark haired man asked, his face still covered by his hands. John stared at him.

"What..?"

"The make-up, John. The..." John's jaw dropped as Sherlock actually shuddered.

"Sherlock - do you mean to tell me that... You're..." He couldn't help it - he began to chuckle. "Afrai-"

"I AM NOT AFRAID, JOHN." Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. "I just... Don't like them. At all."

"Why?" John sat down in the chair - his chair. Mrs. Hudson had kept everything - neither of them could bear to do much else but clean out the fridge. And within days of Sherlock's return, even the fridge was back to the way it used to be. He grabbed the blanket, silently apologised to Mrs. Hudson, and began wiping the paint from his face.

"They're disturbing, John. They've smiles painted on, making their motives nearly indiscernible. Take Jean-Gaspard Deburau, for example. He killed a child, in broad daylight, for heckling him. And then there's 'Pagliacci', in which the main character cruelly murders his wife during a circus performance."

"Sherloc-"

"There's more. John Wayne Gacy. The Robot Clowns. Smilers. Pennywi-"

"I KNEW IT!" John interrupted. "You watched 'It' as a child, didn't you? And your young, impressionable mind was scarred."

"Yes, I saw 'It'... But that's not the reason for my... Objection to... _them_, John."

"Right."

"It isn't."

"I believe you!" John held out his hands in a placating manner. "I've got most of the make-up off, by the way." Sherlock lowered his arms and turned to face his friend.

"You really want to know, don't you?" He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "It's irrational and ridiculous, but... You can't laugh. Or I won't go to this asinine event." John bit his tongue, refraining from pointing out that his wife Mary was the one that organised the 'asinine event'. Sherlock sighed again and began.  
"When we were young, Mycroft would trick me into playing hide and seek. I say trick because, well..."

"He said it just to get you to leave him alone."

"Exactly. I caught on quickly, of course, and one day I decided to get even. So I went up into the attic and then climbed on the roof. I thought that, when he eventually went to look for me in all the usual spots, he'd panic and then get in trouble for losing me."

"How old were you...?" Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

"Three or so." John blinked as his friend continued his story. "And it was because of my mental immaturity and undeveloped reasoning skills that I forgot one major part of my plan - I neglected to close the attic door."

"Mycroft found you, I take it?" The consulting detective rubbed his shoulder as he nodded.

"He had looked everywhere else first, though. But when he saw the open door, he realised my plan, and decided to give me a bit of a scare of my own." John suddenly saw where the story was headed.

"Oh, no. He didn't really come out on the roof-"

"In a clown mask? Yes, he did. I suppose he expected me to scream, at which point he'd take off the mask. But..." Sherlock continued rubbing his shoulder.  
"I ran. Well, I attempted to run. Luckily for me, the roof was angled in a way that I only fell about 4 feet, but it was enough that I dislocated my shoulder and broke several ribs, among other injuries. The first of many roof-related... Mishaps, I'm afraid." John's eyes flicked to his friend's - a joke about the roof? Sherlock didn't meet his gaze, but the minute twitch in his cheek confirmed the older man's suspicion.

"So that's the story? Mycroft frightened you with a clown mask, and you nearly..." He couldn't say it. Even now, a year after Sherlock's return. Five years after the event itself. He couldn't say it aloud.

"Fell off the roof and died? Yes, that's the story. Ironically enough, I never developed an aversion to heights. Just clowns." He tilted his head. "It's Mary."

"What ar-" John's mobile began to ring. He sighed - in part because of his admiration of his friend's deductive abilities, but also because he knew he was now in the doghouse, and would be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future. He grabbed a handful of candy from the bag in his lap and threw it at his friend as he stood and walked out of the room to answer the call.

He smiled ruefully - it looked like Sherlock had managed to get out of going to the "asinine event" after all.


End file.
